


Inextricably

by bravelikealady



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Clegane's Keep, Eventual Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark, F/M, Implied Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark, Light heresy, The Seven, dog angst, garden mourning, general house stark melancholy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 21:07:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9257282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravelikealady/pseuds/bravelikealady
Summary: The war is all but done and a Dragon Queen sits the Iron Throne. Sharing a home with Jon Snow- or Targaryen- has made Sansa privy to a myriad of loose ends in the kingdom of Westeros and she finds herself temporarily (Jon promises her) on the counsel of the Queen Daenerys. As crimes are brought forward serious charges are brought forth against one Sandor Clegane... crimes she knows he would never have committed. Sansa Stark takes her courtesy and the Queen's good graces and sets off to find him. Only to clear his name.Loose inspiration from the conclusion of Jane Eyre





	

**Author's Note:**

> "Never will, says the vision? But I always woke and found it an empty mockery; and I was desolate and abandoned — my life dark, lonely, hopeless — my soul athirst and forbidden to drink — my heart famished and never to be fed. Gentle, soft dream, nestling in my arms now, you will fly, too, as your sisters have all fled before you: but kiss me before you go..."

The tower house stands steady before her, but not unmarked. War has ravaged the land around the gate and the stone bears the mark of smoke. Despite this the gate has mostly kept and Sansa struggles with the awkward weight of it as she pushes on its half broken frame. 

 

_ Even in death people fear treading on the Mountain’s grounds _ ...

 

_ People fear the Hound, too _ , she was well aware. Countless crimes had been brought forth to the Dragon Queen in King’s Landing, some of them committed by the Hound, but Sansa could not believe it.

 

_ He is not that kind of monster _ , she had told Jon. With his counsel and blessing she had begged before the self-titled  _ Khaleesi  _  to handle it on her own. For the second time she had kneeled in that room, before that horrible throne, and asked for mercy. Hesitantly Daenerys Targaryen agreed to give Sansa a fortnight to find the truth of it and propose a solution.  _ Perhaps this time it will count. _

 

With a knot in her stomach, she knocks upon the door, too small for the Clegane men she has known, barely taller than herself.

 

A woman older than Sansa, but still rather girlish stood sheepishly before her.

 

“I am Lady Stark,” Sansa spoke, and she noticed that the woman was shaking. “I mean no trouble. A raven should have been sent some time ago. I am looking for Sandor Clegane.”

 

The woman gestured her inside, all the while keeping her eyes on the ground. 

 

“Are you the Lady Clegane?”

 

She did not answer as Sansa took steps into the modest foyer. The space is rounded and intimate, a small table cast the scent of old wood into the small space and two small dusty sconces cast flickering firelight along the stone walls. It was so dark in here, in great contrast to the sun soaked day outside.

 

“If you are… regrettably… I must tell you that Ser Gregor is dead, and will never return to this tower again.” 

 

The girl -- woman -- stood frozen. Sansa thought she saw her lip quiver. She remembered how she felt when Joffrey had died. How frightened, how hurt… confused. The weight of death is unchanged by the weight of relief.

 

“I know what it is, this loss,” she told her. “If you ever need anything… send for me.” 

 

Lady Clegane gave half a nod and began to close the door. Sansa left her. Now was not the time for comfort. And she had a different wounded creature to attend to. 

 

She brings herself through a long hall, where the stone walls give way to wood. It is soft and sweet-smelling on one end and an older, darker wood on the other. She wonders if the tower was built in patches or if the keep itself was doing its best to repair the damage of the Mountain all these years. Sansa keeps her hand to the wall as she walks, the darkness becoming hard to navigate. She does not question why the large oil lamps along the walls are unlit; Sansa knows now that he is here. Soon there comes a wooden door that has gone nearly to splinter, little shafts of sun peeking in. She can smell the yard beyond. Pressing gently on the fraying door Sansa is greeted by sunlight and a bright but loamy aroma. 

 

_ A garden _ .

 

It made sense for any house to have a garden, some smallfolk even grew flowers. Sansa had simply not expected it here. It is overgrown but Sansa can see the ghosts of turned soil and life lain deliberate. Ferns fight to take back the land from an unchecked ivy that consumes everything it sees. Its leaves are loping, wide outstretched palms, an unforgivingly deep green. They have strangled what must have been a fountain and they have devoured something in the distance, great pillars hidden entirely by the wild ropes. 

 

_ Sleeping giants _ .

 

Sansa has never seen a vine so eager to conquer ...but the cold is unforgiving as well. Sansa was born in winter and has survived a winter new and so she follows the sweet smelling vine with little fear. Wild berries tangle underfoot as she finds a hardy pebble trail made among the devious coil. It winds around a great tree, with grey and wrinkling bark. She runs her hands along it as she passes under, the golden adorned branches reaching for her hair, and the roughness feels good on the tender flesh of her palms. 

 

She loses her breath when she leaves its embrace and finds the Seven Who Are One waiting to greet her.

 

It is strange to see the Seven here, exposed to the light. No stained glass to distort the shine of the sun or walls to keep the earth at bay. The gods are wild in Clegane’s Keep. Grey-green vines creep up their bodies, around their arms, tangle over noses and in stone cold eyes. 

 

It is like seeing the soul of her mother being taken over by the North… but all is not grey, flecked in snow, and no crimson leaves overshadow her. The Seven are here, simple, unassuming, but strong in their place. She has missed the Godswood since the new Queen called her south. They are not here… but...

 

_ They are old and new _ , she thinks. Sansa feels some knot inside of her unfurl, feels a piece of herself become whole. 

 

She steps forward and finds herself before the Stranger. His face, half man, half emptiness, is the least caught up in the greenery. Even so what might be legs beneath his cloak are devoured completely. There was a time when looking on the Stranger frightened her. That time has passed. She has seen handsome faces, faces unravished, full of worse things than bones. Turning, Sansa quietly greets them all, old friends, estranged family. The Crone’s lantern is lit and she wonders who here had been praying for guidance.  _ Gods know we all need it _ . When she was small it never occurred to her to pray for guidance. She had prayed for love, for patience. She had prayed to be perfect, like her mother and father and Robb.

 

There is near to nothing left of the Smith’s hammer.  _ Has the war taken labor and life from even gods? _ The Warrior’s sword stands strong, little purple blossoms threatening to bloom along its marble blade, but there is no face left to him. The Maiden is nearly unchanged, but her right shoulder down to her abdomen threatens to crumble, the cracks extending like a web through her bodice, with a few delicate fingers reaching for her skirts. Vines have been torn from her feet, leaving a small space where dying and long dried flowers rest. Sansa cannot tell if the blooms were once a part of the vine or if these were offerings made over time, forgotten or abandoned only recently. 

 

She does not meet the gaze of the Father. He is blinded by flora, so she could not, even if she were desperate to.  _ For the best _ , she thinks. His scales extend beyond the touch of the vine, justice hanging in the air, a part of nature but without it. The Mother stands, smiling. She is in the sun entirely and Sansa places her hand against the stone and finds it warm. She allows herself a moment to close her eyes. To think of her own mother, who had loved Septs so much.

 

_ I am sorry _ .

 

She does not know to whom, or what for. But she is.

 

Dropping her hand from the Mother she opens her eyes. The sun has shifted. The day is threatening to leave her and she still needs to find him. 

 

“Move along,” she whispers to herself.  _ Move on _ .

 

Rounding the Mother she sees a great field that reaches on and on until it lies evenly along a green lake. Perhaps the vine keeps from the water for any number of reason… perhaps that is why innumerable yellow blossoms lie before her. Some are kissed with orange or trying to rise from a sandy brown, but they are all brilliant. The stalks dance in the wind, rising and falling, creating an autumnal acre of fragrant sea. She walks on and by a great tree she sees a dog sleeping. She approaches it, carefully but eagerly. It looks very like the old blind dog that kept her company in the Eyrie, and as she steps closer she thinks perhaps this dog is blind as well. His eyes are greying and gaze at nothing in particular. With arms outstretched she calls to the animal gently. Her fingers bounce along the buds, allowing ochre pollen to dust her fingers. Finally, a little tail wags. 

 

“Hello,” she calls.

 

She is greeted with a playful growl. Then a friendly bark. Soon by several. Two young dogs come from behind the big tree, big and black. They run to her, sniffing, but then dash away again, circling her. They are too excited for her to give them a proper pet. She finds herself laughing far too loudly for someone trying to tread into a delicate matter, turning, trying to keep up with them. This only makes them wilder. 

 

“Aye, pups, what in the Seven hell-”

 

Before Sansa can fully process the disembodied call that has wrapped around her from behind it is gone. The dogs flee back toward the tree. She tries to brush the pollen from her hands, to smooth her dress, before she turns to find the source of the gruff voice… but she knows… she has heard it, dreamt it, recalled it...

 

_ The Hound _ .

 

The great man before her could be no one else. Every hollowed sadness or burning contradiction she has ever felt for him or about him creeps up her spine and raises the hair on the back of her neck. He is thinner, or perhaps just no longer bloated from alcohol, and he clutches a twisted, ill fashioned cane. But it’s him. Sandor Clegane. The man she spent so much time praying for survived after all. He is a shadow, towering almost as large as the great tree over the land, and the dogs sit round him, smaller shadows, an extension of them. 

The field swirls around them. Birds go on calling and in the sudden stillness Sansa can hear the lake dancing along what must be a dock or boat. The dogs pant excitedly, but do not move. Her heart is trying to leave her chest. It is in her stomach, it is climbing along her throat, trying to reach out of her ears. _ His eyes are… different _ . She tells herself to stop looking, but she does not… cannot. 

 

“Little bird…”

 

He isn’t calling for her. It isn’t an invitation. It’s a rehearsal, perhaps a question. It leaves his scarred lips like a funeral dirge, brittle, out of tune.

 

“Am I dy-”

“I’ve come to-”

 

They stop as soon as they’ve started. 

_Let the girl die, let the girl die…_ _Remember._ Not a girl in a keep or a tower. Not bruising or playing or waiting. There is no green sky, no smoke, no snow. 

 

“I am sent on behalf of the Queen.”

 

“They took you back to that bloody keep?”

 

“I chose to go.”

 

It is only half a lie, but she can see that he knows it. She walks toward him, apprehension and eagerness circling one another, tumbling downward like sparring falcons, all in the pit of her stomach.

 

“You are charged with crimes. Crimes that I know you did not commit. You can challenge them.”

 

He says nothing, only looks at her. 

 

She marches on until the space between them is only enough for a dog to shove a snout into Sansa’s hand.

 

“Bugger me, they don’t even like me that much,” he laughs, and it is a kinder laugh than she ever heard from him, but she supposes there are laughs of hers, real ones, that he has never heard. 

 

_ I spent so much time dreaming… wanting… and now I… _

 

“I have a way with dogs,” she says, half a whisper.

 

She is not sure why she says it. It’s certainly not a part of her diplomatic mission here. There is only a small lasp for her to agonize within because the Hound snorts with laughter.

 

“Aye, girl, that you do.”

 

She gives the dog a final pat and then looks up at him. 

 

“You’re taller,” he says.

 

“Yes.”

 

“A woman proper.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Are you… Lady Stark… or…”

“I am. I am a Stark.”

 

“Good then.”

 

The wind picks up, whips her hair about her face, but she does not bother with it. Her eyes fall on his face, traveling along his scars, tracing the unmarked half of his face. He is not as severe as she remembers, but the anger in his eyes was always the part of him that really scares her.

 

“Guess you had plenty of practice looking on monsters.”

 

She laughs the sort of soft breathy laugh you laugh when a thing is not funny, but a fact, when there is nothing to be said, but the silence is unwelcome. His hand finds her, brushes hair from her eyes. They are warm, calloused, but weightless against her face. For a moment his hand lingers, then drops.

 

She is sad it does. She cannot remember the last time she was touched out of instinct and with kindness.

 

“You’re bleeding,” she sees that his hands are covered in soft trickles of blood.

 

“Thorns,” he whispers. He opens his other hand and it is full of rose blooms that have festered, “Thought I might save the bush.”

 

She slips her hand over his, sliding the petals to the ground beneath them. She takes both of his hands in her own, gently wiping away blood with her thumb. Finding the roots of the bleeding she tries to clear dirt from them.

 

“There are things we should talk about,” she finally says, her hands now resting atop his. 

 

“Aye,” he whispers, and his hands no longer lie still. They wrap around her own.

  
  
  



End file.
